


Reasons for Success/Failure

by TheShadowPanther



Category: Stargate: Atlantis
Genre: Gen, Humor, Sequel, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-16
Updated: 2009-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-03 00:58:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheShadowPanther/pseuds/TheShadowPanther
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How did you talk about <em>any</em> of that in a mission report?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reasons for Success/Failure

**Author's Note:**

> Again, I deeply apologize. Also? This took _forever_ to write. Jeez. [Link to previous story here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12470)

The creak of leather as John shifted in his seat was loud in the silence of his office. Despite the fact that the office door was open and shouldn't _really_ be making him feel like he was closed in, John couldn't help it. He wanted to be out on patrol, or sparring with Ronon, or needling McKay, anything _fun_, but he'd promised Elizabeth that he would get his paperwork to her by the end of the week, and Lorne was off with SGA-2 on a mission for the next two days, so John was stuck actually _doing_ it for a change.

And this was a mission report from _hell_. How, exactly, did you tell your boss that you had returned from a mission early without even coming close to accomplishing the target because you had seen _zombies_? Not even just zombies, but zombies that hadn't attacked, but had just been dancing.

Well, that and . . . kissing. If you could call that . . . kissing. John certainly didn't. He just didn't have any other words for it. The mental image alone was enough to put him off his sleep, never mind that he'd actually _seen _it. And the grinding, couldn't forget the grinding.

How did you talk about _any_ of that in a mission report?

John leaned back in his chair, which obligingly creaked, and twiddled his pen around in his fingers. Maybe he should ask for help on this one.

:-:-:-:

From: [j.sheppard@sgcatlantis.net](mailto:j.sheppard@sgcatlantis.net)  
To: [dr.m.r.mckay@sgcatlantis.net](mailto:dr.m.r.mckay@sgcatlantis.net)  
Re: (no subject)

So.

:-:-:-:

From: [dr.m.r.mckay@sgcatlantis.net](mailto:dr.m.r.mckay@sgcatlantis.net)  
To: [j.sheppard@sgcatlantis.net](mailto:j.sheppard@sgcatlantis.net)  
Re: What do you want now?

Sheppard, as much as it might be fun for you to interrupt my day with pointless one-word emails, I do not have such a luxury. I'm an incredibly busy man, and each second that I spend typing this email to you is a second that I am _not _working on projects that are far, far more important than whatever boneheaded but admittedly fun scheme you've got in your head now. Stop sending me emails that say nothing whatsoever at all and let me get back to keeping the minions from blowing all of Atlantis sky-high.

Yours,

Dr. M. R. McKay, Ph.D., Ph.D.

:-:-:-:

Well, John grimaced, that was a wash. Usually McKay was a little harder to annoy than that, though not by much. John had expected that he'd be able to get in a cleverly-disguised plea for help _before_ McKay started going off, but it looked like _that_ wasn't going to happen.

Great.

:-:-:-:

"Hey, Ronon," John called out as the door to the gym slid open.

_Thud_ went Thomason and Chang. John winced in sympathy, grinning when one of them tried to get up again but only succeeded in sinking back down with a groan. The other Marine, Sgt. Chang, was sensible enough to know that he was beat and stayed down.

"Sheppard." Ronon inclined his head.

"You about done here?" If he wasn't, then John wasn't going to wait. He didn't want to be the one on the mat groaning like his back was broken after all.

"Yeah." Ronon bared his teeth as Thomason and Chang peeled themselves off of the mat. John nodded to them as they staggered by, offering a "Good work, men, keep it up," and hiding a grin at their groans.

When Ronon turned to leave the gym, a towel slung around his neck, John fell into step beside him. "So how are my Marines working out? Any of them giving you a challenge?"

A grunt. "They're fine, Sheppard."

John winced. "That bad, huh?"

Ronon grinned.

"So what do you suggest we do to step the training up, besides what we've already done?"

He shrugged. "They're fine, if weak on their _slatvika_."

_Slatvika_. John tried to remember what that was. "We'll schedule more hand-to-hand combat sessions then," he ventured, grinning at the way Ronon cleared the corridors easily. The scientists in particular had to have some ESP or some other truly psychic ability to sense auras, for though they never looked up from their toys, they visibly moved aside as Ronon drew near.

Gotta love the Ronon factor.

The rest of the way to Ronon's quarters was spent in silence on Ronon's part and occasional greetings to random people on John's. At Ronon's door, Ronon turned around and pinned John with an expectant look.

John _hated_ that look. It usually meant bad things for him, things along the lines of I'm-going-to-make-you-talk-Sheppard-so-talk-already.

Sure enough, Ronon said, "Spit it out, Sheppard."

John tried to feign innocence. "What?"

He just got another Look. Seriously, Ronon was turning into Teyla, storing up a collection of Looks that meant one thing or another based on a single movement of his face. Scary.

Still, John was in for a penny, might as well go for the pound. "Still don't know what you're talking about, buddy." Plus, he didn't want to talk about . . . it out here. Way too open for this kind of trauma.

Ronon snorted, but hit the door chime anyway. John followed him in and leaned against the wall next to the door. He smirked as he watched Ronon lay himself out on the floor.

"A little tired there, huh, buddy?" he asked, snickering when Ronon just said, "No," without even opening his eyes.

"Listen, I don't wanna take up too much of your time, as clearly you're busy—"

Ronon grunted again.

"—but about the mission to PX8-092 . . . ?"

"Which?" Ronon now opened his eyes and sat up into a stretch. John was pretty sure Ronon knew what he was talking about, but was just fucking with him for some reason. Ronon could be like that.

Yet John had started; now he had to finish. "You know, the one last week, we came back early . . . ?"

He was getting that pointed Look now, the one that said You're-being-stupid-stop-it-now. Okay, so it seemed Ronon really didn't remember the designation PX8-092. Great. He cast about for a way to say "the mission where we saw zombies dancing and kissing and ran away as quickly as we could" without actually _saying_ it.

"Come on, Ronon, help me out here," he found himself blurting. That hadn't exactly been what John had had in mind, but he'd figured he'd roll with it. He was good at that, rolling with it.

"Sheppard." In that one word, John's last name, Ronon somehow managed to say "Stop dicking around and just tell me already." How had he done that? John really needed to learn how to do that; it would solve all of his talking problems pretty much forever.

Then he caught sight of Ronon's expression to go along with his name. Right, stalling. "The one with the zombies," he said in a rush. "I have to do the mission report for it, and I promised Elizabeth—"

Ronon's expression now? Flat.

He had had to endure more of the zombies on the way back, after all. No chasing, which was a relief, but the big man had taken their six and had probably experienced things John did not want to think about. He sighed, shoulders slumping in defeat.

"Yeah, I know, buddy," he said. "I don't want to think about it either."

There went that.

:-:-:-:

The labs, when John dropped by, were normally in one of three states: full and bustling with scientists happily technobabbling about this or that, McKay holding court front and center; empty due to it either being lunch time or dinner time or an off-world team was away (half the time); or empty because a) McKay, b) a crisis, c) the late hour, or d) McKay.

Particularly, McKay screaming at them all to "get out, get out, I don't _care_ where you supposedly got your degree from, it came from a _cardboard_ _box_ as far as I'm concerned, because this work is absolute _crap_. Absolute and utter _Athosian cow_ _dung_, the kind that smells worse if not used as—as fertilizer right away, or whatever it is the Athosians do with it. My niece could do better than this, and considering that she is all of what? Oh, yes, _seven years old_, you all really should be ashamed of yourselves. Get out, and don't let me see your faces for the rest of the day or I _will_ be forced to use my genius for evil against the one responsible. God!"

John flattened himself against the wall just inside the room as dozens of people in blue shirts stampeded past him. Soon the lab was completely empty except for Rodney, John, and Radek, who calmly pushed his glasses up his nose. Rodney gave a loud huff and dropped back into his "ergonomic" chair, immediately wheeling it over to one of his three computers, taking one look at it, and scoffing loudly. Soon he was hunched over and typing madly away in that particular manner that said "DO NOT DISTURB, in any case, except for dire Atlantis-will-self-destruct or the-Wraith-are-invading emergencies, otherwise I will bite your head off so hard you'll be feeling the aftereffects even six feet _under_ _the_ _ground_. Do I make myself clear or do I need to use smaller words so your pathetic brain can understand?"

Ooookay. John was coming back later. Maybe then Rodney would be in a better mood.

If not, he'd have to start looking for the bodies of Atlantis' science division.

:-:-:-:

If she was a little surprised to see John, Teyla never showed it, just poured him the tea she had just brewed. Like Ronon, she was happy to just be silent and wait him out, but this time John was prepared and even had the tea to help him along.

He'd underestimated Teyla's awesome reserve of patience, though, for John was down to the last two sips of his second cup of tea before she broke.

"Not that I am not enjoying this rare moment of peace with you, John," she bestowed her gracious smile on him, "but what has brought this on? Does something trouble you?"

John finished his cup and laid it carefully on the tray Teyla'd filched from the mess. "Well, you see, Teyla, it's like this. I have the mission report for PX8-092 to turn in."

Teyla's expression only turned more inquiring. "The mission last week, where we wished to find the Mer-ethen? Yes, I had intended to ask you about that. What happened, John? We returned early but I was not able to find out the cause."

Crap. This would be harder than John had thought. He'd been hoping one of the others had at least talked to her about it; if nothing else, McKay should have been easy to set off. But no, apparently even he hadn't wanted to talk about the zombie mission. Not that John could blame him.

"After we got separated—Rodney's fault, by the way—Rodney, Ronon, and I ran into a bunch of zombies. We didn't much like the look of them, so we decided to come on back to Atlantis and let them be in peace." John nodded in conclusion and sincerely hoped he wouldn't have to explain this. Surely _somebody_ had told Teyla what zombies were, right?

No such luck. "I am not familiar with these . . . zombies," Teyla said slowly. Her eyes were narrowed thoughtfully and her head cocked to the side.

Damnit.

John lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. "It's an Earth thing."

Teyla narrowed her eyes even further, but she said only: "I see." Which was Teyla-speak for "I do not understand a single thing you are talking about, Earthling, but I am willing to humor you and agree anyway." Just nicer.

Teyla was great like that.

"S'okay, we'll requisition some DVDs from the SGC in the next databurst," John assured her, nodding solemnly. "In the meantime, I've got some surprise inspections to make, so I'll see you at team dinner?"

"Of course, John," Teyla said, face smoothing into another magnanimous smile. "I look forward to watching these movies about 'zombies' with you when the _Daedalus_ next arrives in Atlantis."

John gave her another nod and a smirk, then fled.

:-:-:-:

McKay, predictably, missed team dinner, so John went to the labs with a tray of food and a cup of coffee. He fully expected to see his target still deeply involved in his simulations, or arguing with Radek over the incompetence of his staff or some variables in the triple integration of a variatonal principle involving the law of gravity and subspace vacuum energy (John hadn't even known it was possible to triple integrate a variational principle, and he _liked_ math) or even which genius was better, Batman or Iron Man (Batman, no contest, Iron Man's mechsuit was totally lame).

What he found was infinitely worse: Rodney, with red bloodshot eyes, leaning on his hands on a console staring blearily into space while Radek and Miko (who must have snuck back in, probably at great risk to her person) shuffled quietly around in the background, doing whatever.

"Rodney?" John settled the tray on the nearest lab table and walked over to put his hand on Rodney's shoulder. "You okay there, buddy?"

Worryingly, Rodney didn't respond for a long moment. Then he went "Hmm?" and turned his head so slowly John thought Rodney was afraid it would topple off if it didn't. Those blue eyes blinked, came slowly into focus, and _boom_ Rodney was back.

"Yes?"

Uh, maybe he'd jumped the gun a little bit there. John shook Rodney a little, hoping to snap him out of his funk, and repeated, "You okay?"

"What?" Rodney looked momentarily confused before one of his hands came up to wave tiredly. "Oh, yes. I've just had about a million minion-related disasters to avert today." He seemed content with saying just that.

That was _really_ worrying.

"I brought food." He nudged McKay then, subtly pointing him in the direction of the food and coffee still steaming gently on the table, and grinned in triumph as Rodney lit up like a rocket.

"Oh, God, _food!_" Rodney yelped, lunging for the table. "Oh, _oh_, Sheppard, you are a _lifesaver._"

"That's me," John drawled, leaning a hip against the lab table. He looked on in amusement as Rodney practically inhaled the coffee and then attacked the food like he'd never seen it before. John refrained from commenting, however, no matter how much he wanted to; despite how fun the spluttering would be, John was on a mission. Teasing would be totally counter-productive to said mission. Besides, Rodney looked like shit; John figured he deserved to get cut some slack.

See? John could be considerate.

As Rodney moved on from the not-potatoes (with not-gravy on top) to the weird brown but awesome apple-ish things from MX4-187, Paldoras, John shifted slightly and opened his mouth. "So, what's got you so tired, buddy? Eviscerating your scientists doesn't usually take this much energy." It didn't. In fact, Rodney was usually bouncing around after an entire day of Berate the Idiot Science Team, Ha, Science Team, More Like Moron Team, complaining about how Kavanaugh had sabotaged the septic system _again_ or smugly crowing his genius at the top of his lungs.

"What, tired from those idiots? As if." Rodney snorted. "No, no, just haven't been sleeping well. Nightmares every night." He stuffed some of the meat that John decided not to name into his mouth, said through it, "From . . . you know . . ." His free hand came up from his tray to flap in a way that said "the dancing zombie mission thing" (John was particularly proud of his McKaysian handwaving-interpretation skills).

"What?" John tensed. "You're still having nightmares?" Why hadn't Rodney said anything?

"Mmrmph." Rodney smacked his lips as he finished gulping down the last of It's-Better-Off-Not-Named meat and almost instantly went for the pudding cups that were the only things on his tray that were not demolished yet. John grimaced, but kept the internal _Jesus, McKay _from slipping out by dint of sheer will. The beginning of a McKaysian rant was always the most delicate: if he disturbed the McKay beast's flow before it well and truly started, the beast would never get to the point. It was pretty fun trying to head rants off in an entirely different direction than the one it started, but this was a point that John wanted McKay to get to, so he kept silent.

Right on cue, Rodney opened up with: "Actually, having them less now. Just need another hair-raising death-defying my-team-leader-is-suicidal mission to happen, which it will, it always does, and the PX8-092 disaster will be completely wiped out. Can't wait, really, because I _so_ did not need to see that in the first place, or even second place. Make that fifteen thousandth place, if we _really_ want to get into specifics—"

John tuned him out with the ease of long, long practice. He'd tune back in when it seemed like Rodney was winding down, then he'd make some remark or other that more than likely would get Rodney going again. In the meantime, he had time to wrack his brain for other people he could go to for help, because _no way_ was he going to force McKay to talk about the mission when he was still having _nightmares_ about it, God. He wasn't that much of a dickhead.

Although sometimes, like now, John seriously wished he was.

:-:-:-:

Two days passed with John getting no further in solving The Zombie Mission Report Problem. John was too busy being Atlantis' military commander (read: smirking at his Marines as they were beaten to pulps in the new hand-to-hand combat sessions) the first day and they had a small but devastating earthquake crisis with one of their allies to help out with on the second day. In the end, he simply wrote:

STARGATE COMMAND/ATLANTIS MISSION REPORT

TEAM: SGA-1  
TEAM LEADER: Lt. Col. John Sheppard  
MISSION: PX8-092  
PARAMETERS: Find the village of the Mer-ethen and form a trade alliance with them.  
SUCCESS/FAILURE: Failure.  
REASONS FOR SUCCESS/FAILURE:

Zombies.

SIGNED: J. Sheppard

**FIN**


End file.
